Doc Goode
by the lurker
Summary: After a gang of outlaws mistakes Chester for Doc, a chain of events is set in motion.
1. Chapter 1

GUNSMOKE

"Doc Goode"

The bank teller looked up from the cash drawer and found himself staring down the barrel of a large-gauge shotgun.

"Put all the money in them drawers in a bag. Then I want all the cash outta the safe and put into the bag," the man said, his voice slightly muffled from the bandana covering most of his face. The teller stood frozen in horror and the bandit waved the barrel in front of him. "Git movin', now!"

"Y-yes sir..." The teller stammered as his shaking hands began to clear the cash from the drawers behind the bank windows, shoving it as quickly as he could into a cash bag.

The robber glanced over to his left at the smaller man standing there, a six-gun covering the other teller and the manager. "Joey, make sure they don't got nothin' nowhere else."

The smaller man with a bandana covering his face nodded. "Sure thing, Mike." He turned to the rotund, balding manager. "You, fat man...you got any more cash in this joint?" The man shook his head emphatically. "You wouldn't be lyin' none, wouldja?" He shook his beaded head again. "Just to make sure you git that we mean business..." Joey turned his gun on the teller standing there, and pulled the trigger, ripping a hole in the man's chest. The teller sank to the ground and a female customer screamed. "You, funny-hat lady, shut-up or you'll git the same." He looked back at the pale manager. "Now fat man...where's the rest of the cash?"

The manager nodded his head toward a map hanging on the wall. "Hidden safe behind the map. There's more in there."

"Fine, fat man, open it." Joey turned toward his brother. "Mike...there's more over here."

Mike nodded. "Move it along, Joey." He glared at the teller he was watching. "Hurry up."

A third man was standing with the four unfortunate customers who happened to be in the bank when the robbers walked in waving their guns, demanding all valuables, money and cooperation or else. The woman in the "funny" hat cleared her throat and the bandana-wearing man standing near, growled at her.

"You shet-up."

"I haven't said anything yet."

"And if'n you know whut's good fer ya, you won't." He looked at the odd hat with its plumes and quills sticking out of the top of its brown base. "Joey's right, that is a funny-lookin' hat; but it ain't as funny-lookin' as yer gonna be if'n I blow some holes in ya."

"Well, I never--"

He pointed his shotgun in her face. "--And yer never gonna if'n you don't shet-up."

"Lady," Mike warned, "if I was you, I'd be takin' his advice. And Larry," he said to the man covering the customers, "make sure you got ever'thing off of 'em. Check fer weddin' rings and the like too."

Larry carefully checked the four people standing with him again, pulling off a small ring from a gambler's pinky.

"Hey," the man in the black hat started to complain.

Larry shoved his shotgun against the man's stomach. "You got somethin' to say gamblin' man?" After holding Larry's eyes for a long moment, the man in the black hat finally shook his head. "Good," Larry smiled, "you're a lot smarter'n you look."

The man standing watch on the door to the bank called out, "Mike! Mike...looks like the law's a comin' and he's a big 'un!"

Mike snatched the bag from the teller and turned to his brother. "Joey, git the bag and let's go!"

"Just a second, Mike!"

"No, now!"

"Mike," the man at the door yelled, "Mike...we gotta go!"

"Come on, kid, now!" Mike started toward the door, Larry in tow when the man on watch fired his gun at the approaching lawman, dropping him like a stone. The man's hands began to shake as he stared at the still body lying in the dirt on the main street of town. Mike grabbed the man by the shirt. "Whadd're you doin' Stan? You done kilt the law! Now they's gonna be after us like flies on sh--"

"--I...I didn't mean to... I--"

"--Mike!"

He turned at the sound of his younger brother's alarmed voice, in time to see the door at the side of the bank burst open, and the man he had seen hanging around the lawman was standing there, shotgun blazing. Mike wasted no time dropping the man to the ground, but not before the deputy had hit Joey in the belly.

"Mike...Mike! I'm hit!"

"Damn kid," Mike swore under his breath as he ran for his wounded brother. He yelled at the two other men. "Larry, Stan, get the horses in the alley, let's get outta here before the whole damned town comes down on us!"

Pulling his brother up, Mike grabbed the money bags and hoisted Joey over his shoulder, firing his shotgun with one hand to keep the people in the bank at bay. Throwing Joey onto his horse, he grabbed the reins and climbed on his own bay, kicking the horse with his spurs. The four men rode out as fast as their animals could go, firing at will at passersby to be sure no one followed the cloud of dust rising at the edge of town.


	2. Chapter 2

Doc fought against the forceps, his grip slipping for the second time. "Damnit..." He tightened his thick fingers on the cool steel and tried again, this time yanking free the offending object.

"Ow!"

One of Doc's eyebrows lifted in annoyance. "You jest hush-up, yer lucky I'm even pullin' that splinter out before I go to the Marzden place. Ol' Jeb's been in a bad way lately and I need to check on him."

"Oh Doc," whined Chester, "you know you wouldn't leave me with a splinter the size of a hitchin' post in my fanger...it didn't take ya no time ta get it out..."

The old doctor's eyes narrowed as a slow smile spread across his lips. "And it's a lucky thing fer you that I don't charge by the minute when I need to get out on a call." The old man pulled the glasses from his face, putting them into the case in his vest pocket. "It's only gonna be two dollars..."

"Two dollars?" Chester's voice was indignant, "For gettin' out a little ol' splinter? Two dollars? Wull Doc, that's...that's..."

"That's the price I charge fer splinters the size of a hitching post, and yer gonna pay it!" He toddled over to the coat rack, shrugged into his jacket and put his hat on his head, picking up his bag with his right hand. "Do me a favor while I'm gone, Chester? Finish puttin' the rest of those supplies on the table in my spare bag fer me while I'm gone?"

"Aw Doc..."

"Don't whine about it, Chester, we both know ya ain't got nothin' better to do tonight!"

Chester's mouth twisted into an angry sneer. "Wull I was gonna go over ta the Longbranch and have a beer with Miss Kitty..." He sighed. "But if you want me to finish packin' yer old bag with supplies while you go out ta the Marden's and overcharge folks fer doctorin' I guess I can do it," Chester drawled.

Doc opened the door and grinned. "Put that stuff away fer me, Chester, and we'll call it even."

Goode's face brightened. "Ya mean I don't owe ya the two dollars?"

"Nope. Just do a clean job of it fer me, will ya?"

"Sure, Doc." He looked at the table. "It's jest these here things, ain't it?"

"Yeah, just the items on the table." He glared darkly at Goode. "And Chester, you keep outta my medicine cabinet while I'm gone!"

"Wull forevermore--" But Doc had slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Goode to huff in his own steam. "I hope yer buggy hits a rut in the dark, ya ol' horse doctor..."

* * *

Kitty smiled at the big marshal when he walked through the swinging doors of the Longbranch. "Hiya cowboy..." 

He nodded at her, but didn't smile. "Hi Kitty."

"You look like you could use a drink."

"Yeah."

"Whiskey for the marshal, Clem."

"Yes, Miss Kitty."

Clem placed a shotglass in front of Dillon and watched as he uncharacteristically shot it back in one swallow. Kitty's brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded her head at Clem, who refilled the glass; this time, Dillon sipped at it. She moved closer to him, placing her hand on his arm.

"What's wrong, Matt?"

He looked into her crystal blue eyes and felt the anguish rise in his belly once again. "Bank was robbed in Meade this morning by the Russo gang. They killed Sheriff Crocker and his deputy." He stared hard into her eyes and said, "Crocker had a wife and three kids."

Kitty could feel the turmoil inside of him, and she understood what was propelling it. "You knew him pretty well, didn't you?" He nodded as he downed the rest of his whiskey. "I'm sorry, Matt," she said.

"What are his wife and kids supposed to do now?"

Kitty sighed: to Dillon, it was just more evidence that a lawman shouldn't settle down. But all she said was, "The town will help them, Matt."

"Yeah. A sheriff's pension is three dollars a month. How is she supposed to put food on the table for three kids with that?" He looked up at the bartender. "Hit me again, Clem."

The barkeep poured another and walked away after exchanging a glance with Kitty. She smiled at Matt, and wrapped her arm inside of his. "Come on, let's sit down at a table."

But he didn't budge. "No thanks. I have to send a telegram to Meade and see if they can wire me any more information."

"You're not going after these men..."

"I'm the nearest law, Kitty, I have no choice but to go after them." Her concern would have been evident to him if he hadn't been so self-absorbed. "Before the deputy went down, he shot one of them; according to the bank manager, it was Mike Russo's kid brother and he was wounded bad. My guess is it's gonna slow 'em down quite a bit."

"Then you don't need to leave tonight..."

He tossed back the last of his whiskey. "No. Morning's soon enough. Russo'll most likely hole up somewhere to try and let his kid brother heal up a little."

He turned for the door, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

"See you later, Matt?" She asked, the invitation clear.

He looked away. "I've got rounds; I'll stop by in the morning and say good-bye."

Dillon turned abruptly and headed out of the saloon. She watched the receding figure of the large lawman, and couldn't help but feel that her place in his life had just suffered an unwanted shift.


	3. Chapter 3

The two men rode silently into Dodge, unnoticed by all but the old stableman, Moss Grimmick, and all he saw was two drifters coming off the trail, pulling their pack horse behind them. They passed the freight office, and several saloons before they spotted the General Store and the small sign next to it advertising the sawbones on the second floor.

Larry looked up at the light in the front room. "Looks like the town doc's in...and it's a lucky thing for us. Mike wouldn't hold with us goin' back an' tellin' him we couldn't find a doc..."

The two men dismounted and tied their horses up at the bottom of the stairs. "I don't think it's gonna matter much, Larry."

"You think Joey's gonna die, Stan?"

"You ever seen a man pull through a belly wound like that?"

"Nope."

"Me neither..." He tugged at his hat slightly.

"Don't matter nohow... Mike wants a doc for the kid, so a doc he'll git..." Larry noticed how quiet Stan had suddenly become. "What?"

Stan shrugged. "I ain't never killed nobody before, Larry."

Larry stared into his eyes. "You panicked, didn't you?"

"Guess so. I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to wound him, stop him from comin' at us."

"Now you ain't no different than the rest of us, Stan."

Stand didn't comment, but somewhere deep inside, he felt sick, as though he had violated more than just the law of the land. The two men quietly ascended the stairs. Larry peered through the window at the top of the landing, and saw a solitary man standing next to a table, his back to the door, working on something.

"Looks like he's rollin' pills 'r somethin'," Larry said.

"Let's get it done."

The two men opened the door, and the man at the table turned. "You two fellas need somethin'?"

"Yeah," Larry said as he pulled his gun, "we need a doctor."

"Now you wait a second, mister, you got no call to pull yer gun."

Stan pulled his then. "What about me, do I got call?"

"Now look--"

Larry moved forward quickly, grabbing the man by the shirt. "--Nevermind, Doc, we ain't got time to argue with you. Just get that bag yer fillin' up and let's go."

"Mister, yer makin' a big mistake, I'm not--"

Despite the fact that his hand was shaking, Stan shoved his gun into Chester's ribs. "--If you wanna live past right now, you'll get your bag and get movin'..."

"Wull forevermore...you fellas just ain't listenin' to me, ya see--"

But Chester didn't finish speaking before Larry's gun handle landed on the back of his head, sending him sprawling onto the floor in a heap.

Larry bent over, picked Goode up and slung him over his shoulder. He turned to Stan. "Get his bag and let's go."

* * *

Chester moaned and reached for his head in pain: then he remembered what happened. He opened his eyes quickly and saw three men staring down at him. He scowled deeply, swallowing hard. 

"Who are you men?"

"Who we are ain't as important as what we can do to you, Doc, if'n you don't do like we say," Mike said.

"Look mister, like I tried to tell these two thugs of your'n, I ain't a doctor."

Mike glared at Larry who said, "He's lyin', Mike, we found him in the doctor's office, puttin' supplies in that thar bag of his."

Mike looked at Chester. "I think you'd better stop your lyin' and git to fixin' like you wuz brung here to do."

Russo pulled Chester up by the shirt and shoved him toward a bunk with a man on it. Chester could feel the sweat begin to trickle down him as he neared the wounded man, realizing he was scarcely more than a boy, and had a gunshot wound in his belly the size of an orange. Goode licked his lips as he ran a hand through his dark hair. He turned back to look at the one called Mike.

"Mister, this boy's pretty badly hurt. He needs a doctor."

The anger that played across Mike's face sent Goode's heart into his throat. Russo grabbed Chester by the collar. "Now look you, I done know he needs a doctor, that's why yer here, so git to fixin'!"

Chester's voice raised in fear and frustration, "Mister, I ain't lyin'! I ain't a doctor!"

Mike pulled his gun from his holster and shoved it into Goode's stomach. "You'd better rethink that, mister, because if he dies, you die."

Chester swallowed hard but tried to keep his voice even, "How do ya expect me to do somethin' when I ain't got no bandages or nuthin'..."

Stan tossed Doc's spare bag at Goode. "Here, Doc."

With shaking hands Chester picked up the bag, set it on the table by the bunk, sat down on the cot's edge and opened the clasp. He peered into it and found the square, white cloths that he had seen Doc use to stop bleeding. He pressed it into the wound and the young man howled in pain, causing Chester to jump.

Mike gripped Goode's shoulder from behind. "What kinda sawbones are you, anyway?"

Chester turned to look at the man, his face pale and sweaty from the fear of hurting the young man any further. His voice was dark, "I done told you, mister. I ain't no doctor, and this boy's gonna die if we don't get him one."

"If you ain't the town doc, what wuz you doin' in his office, stockin' up his bag?" Larry asked.

"I'm a friend of his, and this here is his spare bag. I was just helpin' him out by puttin' supplies in it while he was out on a call. He asked me ta do it before he left." Chester glared then at Mike. "I done tried to tell 'em I weren't no doctor, but they wouldn't listen to me. My name is Chester Goode, and I work for Marshal Dillon."

The anger on Mike's face worked itself into fury as he turned on Larry and Stan, pulling his gun from its holster. He gripped Larry by the collar, pushing him into the nearest wall.

"Mike, take it easy," Larry pleaded, "it weren't my fault!"

"Joey's in a bad way, and instead of gittin' a doctor you brung me a friend of the marshal's?" Mike roared. "I oughta kill you one piece at a time!"

"Mike," Stan said calmly, "maybe things'll work out fer us even better this way."

Russo turned toward Stan, pointing the gun at him. "Sure you want ta open that trap of yers just now?"

Stan forced himself to remain cool. "Well, we got us a friend of the doc's, who's also a friend of Dillon's. And the way I heared it, the doc and Dillon are as tight as it gits."

"What're you drivin' at?"

"Larry and I can go back to town and git the Doc - he'll come cuz we got his friend Chester here."

"Yeah, and then Dillon'll come after us with a posse, you idiot!"

"Not if we tell him we'll kill his two friends here..."

"You're wrong, mister," Chester stated, "Marshal Dillon ain't gonna be blackmailed by you, not even to save me or Doc."

Stan shook his head. "That ain't the way I heared it." He looked at Mike. "How bout it, Mike? Dillon'll sure to be out after us for the robbery in Meade anyway; we can buy us a get away _and_ get Joey fixed up if we have Chester here and the doc."

Mike holstered his gun and pat Stan's shoulder. "That thar's right good thinkin', Stan. Right good." He glanced at Larry. "You and Stan ride back into Dodge and wait fer that sawbones to come back - and this time, git the right man." He grabbed Chester's hat from the table, shoving it toward Stan. "You show him this as proof that we got his friend, and you tell him if'n he don't come, Chester Goode'll be good and dead. Then you leave word for Dillon that we're takin' his friends with us, and they stay alive as long as he keeps his distance. We'll turn 'em loose at the Mex border." He glared at Chester. "In the meantime, you do what you can fer Joey, and if he dies, I'll kill you, and the doc."

Chester turned back to Joey and tired to clean the wound: but even Chester could see that the boy didn't have a chance in hell of surviving...


	4. Chapter 4

Kitty was just closing the front doors of the Longbranch when she heard the squeaky wheels of Doc's buggy. She glanced up the street and saw Moss come out of the livery, taking charge of the doctor's rig, and then observed as Adams slowly made his way up Front Street, bag in hand. As he neared her, she called to him.

"Hey, Doc!" She motioned for him to come over to her.

"Evenin' Kitty," he greeted as he stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon.

She looked at the tired face of her dear friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "You look like you could use a nightcap."

He smiled at her, his affection apparent, although his eyes looked swollen and tired. "That's awful kind of you, Kitty, but not tonight. I'm bone weary."

She softly caressed the side of his face with her hand. "Yeah, you do look a bit worn out." She smiled at him then, but her normally bright eyes were clouded with disappointment. "I'll see you tomorrow, handsome."

He knew her too well.

Adams grasped her hand in his as she started away. "What's the matter, honey?"

She shook her head, smiling again in an attempt to cover the bruised heart he had glimpsed in her eyes. "Nothin' Doc. Go to bed."

She tried to turn and go inside, but he pulled her closer to him. "Here now, I know you just a little better than that..." Tears misted her eyes and he smiled sweetly at her. "That offer for a nightcap still stand?"

"Oh Doc, it's silly, and you're tired--"

"--I'm never too tired fer you, if you need me."

He grasped her hand tightly in his and pulled her into the Longbranch. Kitty turned and shut the doors behind them.

The two men watched from the shadows across the street as the door to the Longbranch closed.

"He had a doctor's bag, Larry, and she called him 'Doc'. That's gotta be him."

"Yeah, a sawbones with a thing for a saloon gal. Looks like the ol' boy ain't gonna git no comfort tonight. Come on, Stan..."

* * *

Kitty poured two whiskeys and sat down at the only table that still had chairs on the floor. Adams took a sip from his glass and joined her, waiting, but she said nothing. 

"Matt come by tonight?" He asked, forcing his voice to stay neutral. Her eyes darted to his and then looked quickly away, and he knew he'd hit it on the head. "You wanna tell me about it?"

She let out a breath of air and took a sip of her drink. "He received a telegram from Meade about a bank robbery this morning..."

"Matt knows the sheriff there, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," she said, "he did."

"Did?"

"Both the sheriff, his deputy and a teller were shot and killed, but before the deputy died, he said it was the Russo gang that did it. And the bank manager said that Russo's brother got hit."

Understanding dawned on him, and Adams said, "Sheriff Crocker was married with kids, wasn't he?"

"Yeah."

"And Matt's takin' it kinda hard, and you sense a little distance..."

"Distance? It's more like a canyon, Doc."

He put his hand on top of hers. "It won't stay that way, honey. It probably just scared him a little is all. You know, when a man lives with death everyday, it can sort of wear thin on him sometimes..."

She looked at him sharply, and saw the dullness in his pale blue eyes. "Aw, Doc, you lost ol' Jeb Marzden, didn't you..."

"'Fraid so."

The doors to the saloon opened then, and two strangers walked in.

"I'm sorry, fellas," Kitty apologized, "but we're closed for the night."

"That's all right," Larry said, "we ain't lookin' fer a drink..."

"Well what'd you come in here for then?"

Larry pointed at Adams. "Fer him." He turned his eyes on the doctor. "You're the town sawbones, ain'tcha?"

"I'm Dr. Adams, yes."

"Good," Larry said as he pulled his gun.

"Now wait a minute, mister," Doc said, "you don't need that to get me to doctor somebody."

"Let's just call it insurance, Doc."

"Gunshot wound, huh?" Doc surmised.

"That's right," Larry responded, "now get movin'..."

Adams stood, but Kitty grabbed his hand. "Doc, please don't..."

"Stay out of it, missy," Larry warned. He grinned lecherously at her then, leaning over to touch her hair. "You know Red, you're not bad lookin'..."

Kitty slapped his hand away, and he slugged her hard across the face. Adams grabbed the man's arm, preparing to punch him, but Larry shoved his gun into Doc's throat, as Stan wrenched his arm behind his back, the cold steel of Stan's six-shooter pressing into him. Doc winced in pain as his shoulder was stretched to its limit.

"Try anything like that again, pill pusher, and it'll be the last thing you ever do," Larry growled.

"You touch her again, mister, and you won't be far behind me," Adams promised through gritted teeth.

Larry cocked the trigger of his gun, and Kitty grabbed Doc's free hand with both of hers. "Doc, please...I'm all right. Don't antagonize him." She glared into Larry's dark eyes. "Look, there's not another doctor for a hundred miles; you kill him, and your friend is dead for sure."

Stan loosened his grip and holstered his gun. "She's right, Larry." Stan added as he pulled Chester's hat from under his jacket. "Besides, we've still got the upper hand."

"That's Chester's hat!" Kitty exclaimed.

Larry holstered his weapon and moved back a step from Adams. "Very good, missy," he said. "You see, yer friend Chester ain't gonna stay alive if the doc here don't come with us real quiet like."

Realizing he had no options, Doc gently pried Kitty's hands from his; but her eyes filled with panic as she pleaded, "Doc..."

He put his hands on either side of her face, examining the bruise that was forming on her cheek, noting that it would be sore, but that it wasn't serious. "I'll be fine, honey. They aren't gonna do anything to me as long as they need me. And you know as well as I do that I can't let anything happen to Chester..." He looked deeply into her eyes. "You be sure and put a cold cloth on that cheek after we leave." Adams turned to Larry then. "You and your gang were in Meade this morning..."

"You're a sharp ol' cuss, I'll say that for ya."

"Heard it was Russo's pup brother who got shot," Doc prodded.

"Yeah, and yer gonna fix him, or else your friend Chester's gonna be a corpse." Larry turned to Stan. "Go get the horses." Stan nodded and quickly left through the front doors. "You, missy, I got a job fer you...yer gonna deliver a message fer me to that marshal of yours..."

* * *

Kitty sat at the table in Matt's office, nursing a cup of coffee as he paced the length of the room, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. 

"They didn't tell you anything more than that?"

"No. Just that they had Chester, and they'd kill him if Doc didn't go with them; and that if you valued both their lives, you'd keep your distance and they'd let Chester and Doc go at the border of Mexico." She studied the frown on his face and her stomach turned. "You think they'll kill them no matter what..."

Matt nodded his head. "They killed a sheriff, his deputy and a bank teller; they're not going to let Chester and Doc live..." He stopped pacing and reached for his gun belt, putting it on as he spoke. "They're just hoping that I'm dumb enough to buy it..."

"But Matt--"

"--Kitty, I'm telling you as surely as I'm standing here - they're killers. The only chance Doc and Chester have is for me to tail them and try and find an opening to do something."

"Well what can you do that won't get one or both of them killed? Or for that matter, you?"

"I don't know yet, Kitty. I only know that I have to try."

He walked to the door and put his hat on his head, turning to look at her as she stood.

"Matt, please don't go alone."

He stared into her pleading eyes and swallowed hard. "I can't risk anyone else, Kitty. Besides, I might stand a better chance of saving Chester and Doc if I go in by myself."

She walked slowly to him, and put her arms around his waist, looking up into his shimmering blue eyes. "Bring them back, Matt. I want all three of you back."

He nodded and started to leave, but she pulled him toward her, kissing him deeply on the mouth. He gently broke away, and they stared long and hard into each other's eyes. Slowly, the big marshal of Dodge turned and walked out the door, gently closing it behind him. And Kitty sank into the nearest chair, weeping in fear not only for the man she loved, but also for a sweet friend, and a man who had become so dear to her that she would bear his loss no easier than Dillon's.

They had to come back.


	5. Chapter 5

After the second hour of hard riding on a horse and saddle that weren't his own, Doc was beginning to feel the soreness setting in. He pulled up on the reins, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. Larry stopped on a dime right behind him.

"Whaddya think yer doin'?"

"Just catchin' my breath fer a minute, if that's all right with you."

"Well maybe it ain't..."

Doc shifted slightly in his saddle, trying to relieve the strain he could feel in his adductor muscles. "When yer my age and you don't ride too often, you'll understand..."

"We don't got time ta waste ya ol' sawbones, so git movin'."

Doc glared at the man, but gently nudged the mare in the sides and made a clucking sound with his mouth. The horse began walking again, but at a considerably slower pace.

Larry yelled at Adams. "You either get that horse up to a cantor, or I'll do it for ya."

Sighing heavily, Doc pressed in on the horse with his thighs, noting again that his muscles were tightening with each mile. The mare began to cantor, and the old doctor gently held the leather in his left hand, guiding the horse with practiced ease while allowing the extra rein to sit in his right. Larry's horse galloped past and Adams could feel his mare wanting to match the gelding's pace. He calculated that given the size of his horse, and his own smaller stature, the mare he was on could most likely out run Larry's horse easily. Doc looked ahead and saw Stan riding out in front of them a good hundred yards or so, and for a moment the old doctor thought about making a break for it; and if Chester's life wasn't hanging in the balance, he would have tried it. Instead he allowed the mare to move into a gallop, holding pace with Larry's gelding.

But the gelding didn't like the crowding and spooked, neighing wildly.

Larry tried to pull back on the reins with both hands, but his horse began to buck, kicking his hooves out with fury. Doc's mare tried to run clear, but it was too late. One of the gelding's back legs caught the mare's forefront and the horse tripped, tumbling down in a heap, smashing Doc under her. The old man heard a bone snap and screamed in pain. Larry's horse threw him fiercely overhead, sending the man flying into the air, his head connecting with a rock as he hit the ground. Stan pulled up as he heard the commotion, and a moment later kicked his horse hard, heading toward the downed men. He jumped off his bay, and ran to Larry first, but the man's neck was broken. He went to Doc, who was pinned under the mare.

"You hurt bad, Doc?"

"Bad enough," Adams said through clenched teeth.

"Your horse has had it."

"Yeah."

"Can you move out from under her at all?"

Adams tried to free himself, but the pain that shot through him sent a wave of nausea radiating out to every nerve ending. "Can't..." He managed to say.

Stan let out a breath of air as he pulled his gun from its holster, taking aim.

* * *

Dillon had been following signs of the three horses from Dodge for a couple of hours, but tracking was slow in the dead of night. The prairie wasn't well lit thanks to the cloud cover and humidity of midsummer. From the spacing of the tracks he surmised that they were moving along at a pretty good clip, and the idea of that in such darkness didn't give Matt a good feeling. While Doc had been a good enough rider when he was younger, he hadn't spent as much time on a horse in recent years, preferring to make his rounds in his buggy. The bottom line was that Dillon didn't hold a lot of confidence in the old man's horsemanship should the animal hit a prairie dog hole or become spooked. Matt shivered. 

The single shot echoed across the prairie with the ping of a .44 caliber pistol. Dillon pulled Buck up short, listening intently to the last of the ring, trying to determine its direction. Realizing it wasn't but a few miles off, Dillon spurred his large gelding, and Buck took off at a steady gallop. Matt silently prayed that he wouldn't find Doc lying out on the prairie with a bullet in him.


	6. Chapter 6

Dillon could see the outline of a dead horse coming into view in front of him and he slowed his gelding down to a trot. He pulled up on the reins as he approached and dismounted, walking over to the dead animal. He knelt down and saw the bullet in the mare's head, and breathed a slight sigh of relief: until he saw the outline of a man lying a few feet away. Scrambling to his feet, Matt quickly went to the downed body. He rolled him over and could see it wasn't Doc, and he let out a breath of air that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The man was dead, and as far as Dillon could tell, it was from the blow he took on his head. He looked down at the prairie floor and saw a rock covered in blood. The marshal figured that the man's horse must have spooked or hit a hole and thrown him; the shot he heard must have been another member of the Russo gang putting the mare out of her misery.

He checked the sign in the dirt and could see the tracks of two horses continuing on; at least Doc Adams was all right for the moment.

* * *

Adams could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead as Stan guided the horses through some trees and down into a clearing, where a small shack stood. As the horses walked up to it, Stan jumped off his animal, tied him up to a tree and then turned to the old doctor. 

"How is it, Doc?"

"Not so good."

Stan reached up and as gently as he could, helped the old doctor out of the saddle and onto the ground. Doc practically crumbled in pain, and Stan put an arm around his waist.

"Just lean on me a little and we'll getcha inside."

"I'll need my bag..."

"I'll come back out and get it."

Stan carefully helped the old doctor into the shack, and as soon as they had stepped inside they stared down a double-barrel shotgun.

"Easy, Mike," Stan said.

"What the hell happened to him?" Mike indicated the doctor. "And where's Larry?"

"Larry's dead."

"What?"

Stan gently put Doc in a chair and turned to Russo. "His horse got spooked and took off at a run, got tangled up with Doc's old mare. The gelding threw Larry and he hit his head on a rock; snapped his neck like a twig. The Doc here broke his leg when his mare went down. I had to shoot her. I'm gonna go get his doctorin' bag."

Doc stared at Mike, who had put the gun down. When the man didn't say anything, Adams glanced around the room, and saw Chester asleep in a chair in the corner, next to a bunk that had a very pale young man on it. Doc looked back at Mike.

"Help me over there."

"I ain't helpin' you do nuthin'."

"Fine. You're the one who brought me out here to help that young whelp, if you don't want me to, that's just fine."

Russo looked over at his little brother, then leaned over and roughly pulled Adams up, causing him to grunt at the pain in his leg. Mike moved Adams over to the bed, and grabbing Chester by the shirt with his free hand, yanked him from the chair, tossing him to the floor.

"Wha...what the--? Doc? Doc!" Chester scrambled up quickly and went to the old doctor whom Mike had dumped in the chair. "Doc, what happened to ya?"

"Broke my leg." He reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out his glasses; he put them on his face, and marveled at the fact that they weren't broken. Adams examined the wound and silently exchanged a glance with Goode, then he said, "Chester, I need my scalpel, forceps, some alcohol and cloths. We gotta get that bullet outta there."

Adams grimaced as he tried to shift in the chair to gain better access to the young man. "Doc?" Chester's worried eyes communicated his deep concern. "What about your leg?"

"You ain't doin' nuthin' 'bout that 'til after you see to my little brother Joey," Mike growled.

Doc looked up at the man over the rim of his glasses, his pale eyes filled with disdain. "I had no intention of setting my leg before taking out that bullet." Russo relaxed slightly and Adams continued, "However, I ain't touching this boy until you let Chester go."

"Doc!" Chester scolded, "I ain't leavin' you here alone like this."

"Oh yes you are." Adams looked at Russo. "What about it?"

"No."

Doc leaned back in his chair then, crossing his arms. "Then I guess this young man's gonna die, because I ain't liftin' a finger to help him until Chester is on a horse ridin' away from here."

"Doc--"

"--You hush up, Chester," Doc rumbled.

The doctor and the outlaw stared at each other, neither willing to budge. Joey groaned and Mike swallowed hard.

"Do something ya damned sawbones!"

"I will, but you let Chester go first."

Joey moaned again. "Doc...do something," Mike pleaded.

Adams glanced down at the boy and knew it was only a matter of time; it was far too late for him, there was nothing Adams could do. His only option was to try and save Chester, but he needed to get Mike to agree to it before the boy died and he lost the only leverage he had.

"Look Russo, I don't want to leave this boy unattended; but there's no reason for you to keep Chester. I'm here, and I'll do all I can, you have my word on that, you don't need to hold anything over my head to convince me to try and save a life."

At some point Stan had slipped back in carrying Doc's bag, and he spoke. "Mike, the old man's right. We don't need this other man. He'll only be a burden to us later anyway. We got the Doc, Dillon ain't gonna do nuthin' long as we have him."

Joey cried out in pain again, and Mike could no longer stand it. "All right! Stan, get Chester outta here, but he gits no horse."

"Wait a minute--" Doc began to balk.

"--No!" Mike yelled. "He can go, but he's goin' on foot. We ain't got the horse to spare now, and I don't want him gettin' nowhere very fast. Take it or leave it, Doc, but that's the way it's gonna be."

Adams nodded. "All right. But he goes right now, before I do anything for this boy."

Chester put a hand on Adams' shoulder. "Doc..."

Adams didn't have to turn to look into the big brown eyes to know that they were misty with sadness. "I'll be fine, Chester. You just go on now," Doc said without turning.

"But Doc--"

"--Get outta here, Chester!" Doc growled.

Stan gripped Goode's arm and walked him to the door. Chester looked back once more at Mike.

"You harm one hair on his head, mister, and I'll kill you, I swear it."

Russo glared at Goode, about to retort when Doc interrupted. "Chester damn you, get outta here, now!" The two men's eyes met and Adams could read the caring and worry in Goode's. His voice softened considerably, "Be careful out there in the dark, Chester, don't get lost."

Stan pulled Goode through the door, closing it behind them, and with Mike hovering over his shoulder, Doc Adams set to work on a wound he knew was mortal. He prayed that the boy would last long enough to give Chester time to put as much distance between himself and the shack that he could. Matt Dillon was out there somewhere; Doc could feel it. He hoped that Chester would find him sooner rather than later.


	7. Chapter 7

Diligently, Adams had removed the bullet, sewn up the arteries and then closed the wound, all the while knowing that the poor boy didn't have a prayer; but it was buying Chester time, and since he couldn't save Joey, that was the doctor's main concern. Throughout the night, he had given Joey laudanum to help ease his pain, and as expected, the boy had grown quiet and pale. He checked his pulse and then gently lifted his eyelids: it wouldn't be long now. Adams put a soft hand on the young man's forehead; if he could feel it, the warmth of a human hand might give him a small measure of comfort. Doc glanced over at the two outlaws, both of whom had dropped off to sleep, deciding that the immobile Adams didn't need to be watched. And as the doctor adjusted his position slightly, he realized they were quite right. Broken at the lower femur, the pain in his leg was excruciating each time Doc tried to move the slightest bit.

He let out a low breath of air trying to dull the ache in his leg; but he badly needed a splint or the distress was going to become unbearable. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and realized he was extremely thirsty. Adams glanced over at the table where there was a canteen, but it was too far for him to reach, and he knew he couldn't limp over to it. He looked down at the glass of water by the bunk, but that was for the boy, and in case the dying young man needed some water in his last moments, Doc Adams wasn't going to be the one to deny him for the sake of his own comfort. Joey moaned in pain, and Doc brushed his hand softly over the boy's brow.

"Easy Joey, easy son."

"Mike...where's Mike?"

"He's asleep," Doc answered softly, "you want me to wake him fer ya?"

"No," the boy shook his head weakly. "I don't want him to see it."

"See what, boy?"

He licked his chapped lips. "Me dyin'...he always said I wuz weak; I don't wanna see it in his eyes while I'm dyin'." Adams picked up the glass of water with one hand and Joey's head with the other, pouring a little water into his mouth. "Thanks," Joey said.

Doc gently set his head down on the pillow and the glass back on the table. Thinking he was going to leave him alone, Joey grabbed the doctor's hand. Adams looked into the hazel eyes and could see the fear. He held the boy's hand in between both of his, softly rubbing it.

"Don't be scared, son, I'm right here with ya."

The boy swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Adams, from Dodge City."

"I always wanted to see me a town like Dodge..."

The boy nodded at Adams as his eyes fluttered closed. Doc gently set Joey's hand down and checked his pulse once again. He put his watch back in his pocket and laid a strong hand on top of the boy's. He swallowed hard trying to push the dryness from his throat and leaned his upper arm against the back of the chair, allowing his forehead to press into his hand. The doctor in him knew he should wake the outlaws; but Chester deserved as much time as the old man could buy him, so Doc simply closed his eyes and tried to rest, despite the throbbing in his broken limb.

* * *

Chester had walked about two miles, in case Stan was watching, and then he had doubled back, sneaking through the trees before the clearing, hiding himself in the large bushes nearest the shack. He knew from the look Doc had given him when he examined the boy that Joey Russo wasn't long for the world, and that Adams was simply trying to buy Chester's life and enough time to get away. But Chester couldn't leave him alone like that; Doc was too special a person and far too important a man to risk losing. Chester watched for any sign of movement within the shack, but there had been none for hours. His eyes felt droopy, but he didn't dare fall asleep. 

Wearily, Goode looked toward the east and could see the twinges of first light. He wondered if Joey Russo had made it to another dawn, or if Doc had lost him sometime during the night. Whichever way it was, it would most likely become known soon enough. Chester looked around for some kind of weapon to use, but there wasn't much. He found an old branch that had fallen from a tree; it wasn't really heavy enough, but it was at least a bit thick, and it was the only thing available. Chester tested the weight of it against his left hand, and figured at the least it could stun a man enough to maybe gain some kind of edge in a fight.

But Stan and Mike had guns; Chester would have to find a way to get close enough to club one of them over the head before they knew he was there, and given how bad off Doc's leg looked, the physician was going to be of little or no use. Goode felt his stomach flutter a little. Doc hadn't appeared to be in the best of shape several hours ago, and Chester wondered how surgery and a long night's vigil were wearing on him. Yet worrying would do nothing to help the situation. He would simply have to lie in wait for an opportunity to present itself.


	8. Chapter 8

It had taken Dillon most of the night to follow the tracks of the two horses which finally trailed through some trees and into a clearing: and there was a shack with four horses tied up in front of it. Dillon gently spurred Buck back up into the wooded area, where he dismounted and tied the gelding to a sturdy trunk. He pulled the rifle from its scabbard and headed down toward the low bushes closest to the dwelling to get a better look.

As first light began to appear in the east, Dillon was startled when he was jumped from behind, a hand covering his mouth. "Mr. Dillon," the soft voice whispered.

Matt turned on the ground, glaring at Goode. "Chester! What are you doing?"

"Wull, I didn't want you to call out, Mr. Dillon, or worse," Goode eyed the rifle, "shoot me!"

"What the hell are you doing out here and where's Doc?"

"Oh that stubborn ol' goat's inside." Chester's dark brown eyes implored Dillon's patience. "He told Mike Russo that he wouldn't help his brother if Russo didn't let me go."

Dillon frowned. "I can't believe that worked with a hard case like Russo."

"Only because the boy's in such a bad way, Mr. Dillon, and he was wailin' in pain, and Doc just sat back in his chair and did nothin'..."

Dillon's eyebrows arched. "That doesn't sound like Doc..."

"Well there ain't nothin' Doc can do to save him, Mr. Dillon, I seen that as clear as day on Doc's face when he first looked at him. All he can do is maybe make it a little easier for him."

"Russo know that?"

Chester shook his head. "No. I don't reckon he'd a let me go if he'd thought that."

"No, probably not." He could feel Chester hadn't given him all of it. "Is Doc okay?"

Goode looked down. "No. His leg's broke, Mr. Dillon, and from the look of it, it's pretty bad."

"Can Doc move at all?"

"Not really. It looks like it's broke at the knee, and was painin' him something fierce, although you know Doc, he didn't say nothin'."

Dillon's lips pulled into a straight line. "So even if we can get in there and take them, Doc can't get out of the way."

"Not by himself, no sir."

"All right. Then we'll see if we can jump them out here."

"It could be a long wait, Mr. Dillon."

"If Russo's brother is that bad off, I doubt it, Chester."

"Mr. Dillon...what if Russo just kills Doc right then and there? I mean if his brother dies..."

Matt didn't want to try and answer it, nor did he want to think about it. "I doubt he'll do that, Chester. He's gonna see Doc as his ticket to the border; he's not gonna kill him that easily."

But Goode noticed that Dillon's voice lacked its normal assuredness, and it left him feeling chilled despite the warm humidity of dawn.

* * *

Stan quietly arose and put a pot of coffee on the stove. He then walked over to Adams, noting that the old doctor's hand was resting on Joey's, as if he had tried to comfort the kid. The old man's leg was terribly swollen and his forehead had broken out with a fevered sweat. Stan saw the half-empty glass of water on the table by the bunk and the almost empty bottle of laudanum next to it, and it dawned on him that the doctor must have saved both for Joey. But the kid no longer looked like he was breathing. 

A slight panic filled him and his eyes darted to Mike: yet he decided against waking him right then. He glanced once again at Adams, and tried to comprehend what would cause a man in his condition to forgo helping himself in order to ease a young outlaw who had been doomed before the doc had ever arrived. Stan shook his head: he had forgotten that doctors were a breed unto themselves with a set of values and ethics that most folks could not understand.

He gently shook Adams' shoulder. "Doc?" He whispered. "Doc?"

"Hmmm?" Adams started awake and stared at Stan before remembering where he was and why. "What is it?"

"I think the kid's... you know..."

Adams didn't even look at Joey before saying, "Yeah, he's dead." Stan stared at him and the old man said, "I lost him during the night."

"Why didn't you wake Mike?"

Adams looked hard into the man's eyes. "If you were me, would you have?"

"I see your point." He watched Adams swallow hard. "You want some water?"

"I'd appreciate some, yes."

Stan pulled the canteen from the table and handed it to the doctor, who unscrewed the top and gulped down a large amount before handing it back to the outlaw.

"You could have had some of that water in that glass there..."

"No I couldn't. I didn't know how much the boy might need and it's not as if I could just get up and get more."

Stan nodded. "That leg looks pretty bad."

"I need a splint..."

"No," said Mike as he stood up, stretching. "We ain't gonna fix you up until Joey's fit to travel." Doc exchanged a glance with Stan and Mike scowled. "What?"

"I'm afraid your brother didn't make it, Russo," Doc said calmly.

"What?" Mike roared. He yanked his gun from its holster and held it tightly against Doc's head. "You let him die?"

"I didn't let him die, Russo. He never had a chance really..."

Russo cocked the pistol. "I should have killed you when you first got here, you stinkin' ol' sawbones!"

"Mike," Stan said evenly, "if you kill him, we don't have anything to barter with if the law comes after us."

"I don't care. He killed Joey, and now I'm gonna kill him."

"I didn't kill him," Doc growled, "you did that when you involved him in a bank robbery..."

Mike backhanded Doc hard across the face, drawing blood from the corner of his mouth, an ugly bruise quickly forming on his cheek. "I'm gonna kill you, you son-of-a-bitch..."


	9. Chapter 9

The agony-filled screams that suddenly pierced the dawn sky made Chester start, and only Dillon's hand on his shoulder kept him from bolting toward the door of the shack.

"Mr. Dillon," Chester cried, "we can't just sit out here while they're hurtin' Doc like that!"

"I know, Chester," Matt growled through clenched teeth, "but stormin' in there with guns blazin' will only get him killed."

"We gotta do somethin'!"

Realizing there was no more time to keep the element of surprise, Dillon could only think of one thing to do. He handed Chester his shotgun. "Stay here and don't make a sound."

He stood and walked out of the bushes toward the shack, using the outside well as cover. "Russo!" He called, "Russo! It's Marshal Dillon from Dodge. Throw out your guns and come out with your hands in the air."

The sounds of movement and Doc's cries ceased. After a stretch of silence, Russo yelled out to Matt. "Unless you want this sawbones in here to get a bullet in his head, I think you'd better let us ride outta here, Dillon."

"Can't do that, Russo. You murdered three people in Meade. I have to take you in."

Chester stared hard at Dillon from the cover of the bushes, shocked by what he was hearing.

"Give yourself up, Russo, it's your only chance."

"I mean it about the doc, Dillon. I'll kill him."

"You kill him, Russo, and you're a dead man."

"I ain't comin' out Dillon, unless you promise me a free ride, and I ain't givin' you the doc here."

"Damn," Matt muttered under his breath; Russo wasn't going to buy his bluff. "All right, Russo, I'll let you ride out of here if you let Dr. Adams go."

"No deal, Dillon," Russo yelled, "we take the doc with us as insurance."

Matt licked his lips; he was getting nowhere fast, except that Russo was no longer pounding on Doc. "I need to think about it, Russo," Matt answered, trying to buy time.

"Sure Dillon, you think about it, but don't take too long...it could be unhealthy for the doc here."

Dillon moved back to the bushes where Chester was hidden. "He called my bluff."

"Well, he knows damned well you ain't gonna do nuthin' to hurt Doc," Chester agreed. "I'm awful worried about him," he added quietly.

"I know, Chester. I know."

* * *

Doc tried to lie as still as he could, allowing some of the stabbing pain in his leg to subside. Russo hadn't beaten him much; it had been the jostling of the broken limb that had caused Adams to collapse in pain. He felt his upper body being lifted as a blanket was put under his head. He opened his eyes. 

"Tell me what to do for ya, Doc," Stan said, "and I'll try."

Doc's brow furrowed. "Why in the hell would you help me?"

Stan looked down, an emotion Doc couldn't name coloring the outlaw's face. "Doctors is a special breed. I know that." He looked into the pained blue eyes. "I just don't hold with killin' a sawbones is all..."

Adams could sense there was much more to it, but all he said was, "You ever put a splint on a broken leg before?"

"No. But I seen it done."

"All right." Adams looked at the young man's face as it paled with fear. "You sure you're up to this, boy?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Mike walked over to them. "Don't you touch him, Stan. We ain't fixin' him up. Not with Joey lyin' there cold." He glared down at Adams. "I want him to suffer, just like my brother."

Stan's voice was calm, assured, "Mike this man tried to ease his sufferin'; I saw that even if you coudln't."

"He let Joey die because he was my brother..."

"No, he didn't."

"What're you sayin'?"

"He's a doctor, Mike. Sawbones' take an oath. They help anyone who needs 'em, they don't make judgments about what folks done to need a doc's help."

"You don't know what yer talkin' about."

"I read medicine for awhile with a doctor in Amarillo, Mike. I know a little bit about it."

Mike made a noise of disbelief with his mouth, turned and walked back to the window where he could keep an eye out for Dillon.

Doc's voice was soft, unthreatening, "Why'd you quit, son?"

Stan smiled at Adams as he reached for a bottle of whiskey. "Can't make no money bein' a doctor."

Adams stared right through him. "That's true enough."

Stan held Doc's head up and poured a little whiskey into his mouth. "That oughta take some of the edge off."

"You could have given me the rest of the laudanum ya know..."

"Savin' that for after I set this leg. You're gonna need it more then."

Stan filled a bowl with some water, doused a cloth in it and put it on Doc's forehead. Adams watched as Stan broke a chair to use its legs for a splint, and tore strips of a sheet to use as ties.

"I don't need to tell you anything about this, do I..."

"Guess not, Doc." He pulled a small leather strap from Adams' bag and placed it between Doc's teeth. "I'll go as fast as I can, Doc, just try and bear it out." He looked into the light blue eyes. "Ready?"

Adams nodded and Stan gripped his left leg with one hand above the knee and Adams' ankle with his other. He yanked the hand holding the ankle hard toward himself, setting the bone back in place at the kneecap. The doctor screamed in agony through clenched teeth, and then passed out.


	10. Chapter 10

"Mr. Dillon, what're we gonna do?" We can't just sit out here forever..."

"I know that," Matt growled. Feeling immediate regret, he pat Goode's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chester...I'm worried about getting Doc out of this in one piece."

"Yes sir," Chester nodded.

Matt had thought hard on the situation for the better part of an hour, and still he couldn't think of a solution that would bring doc out alive. If they rushed the shack, Russo would just shoot Adams, and then maybe take either Dillon or Chester out before they could get him. And Matt was unsure how many other men were in there who could handle guns. It was too risky. If he let Russo ride away with Doc, he felt certain the outlaw would just shoot the old man somewhere out on the trail. There was only one possibility, and Dillon was going to have to try for it...

* * *

"What's Dillon doin' out there anyhow?" Mike complained. "It's goin' nigh on two hours and he ain't said nuthin'..." 

"Probably thinking about his options."

"You fix that ol' sawbones so's he can ride?"

"I've set his leg, but he can't ride for long, Mike. He'll just slow us down. I say we take him with us only long enough to secure a head start."

"If he slows us down, how's that gonna work?"

"Dillon'll have to stop and take care of him if we leave him out there; he can't leave the old man out on the prairie in the condition he's in to fend for himself. He'll have to get the ol' sawbones back to Dodge, and by the time he's done that and gets goin' out after us, we'll have a whole day's head start."

Mike pursed his lips and turned back around, thinking.

Adams groaned and Stan knelt next to him. "How do ya feel, Doc?"

"Let hurts like blue blazes..."

"Yeah, I know. Here," he said as he held Doc's head up, pouring a little laudanum into his mouth, "this should help a bit."

Doc observed the young man as he cleaned up the surgical instruments Adams had used on Joey, packing up both of Doc's bags for him: the care in his motions was indicative of a man other than the one Stan appeared to be.

"It wasn't the money," Adams said.

"What?"

"You didn't give up doctoring because it didn't pay enough money."

Stan shook his head. "You're a pretty smart ol' goat, ain'tcha."

"Just observant."

"Sawbones I was readin' with was a dedicated, wonderful surgeon who'd have helped the devil himself if he'd come askin'. One day some men came, said they had a friend who'd been thrown from a horse out on the trail. Ol' Doc took his bag and rode out with 'em." Stan stared intently into Doc's steady eyes. "He never came back. Sheriff found him two days later in some cabin, shot, stripped of his clothes, what little money he had, stolen, his bag and his horse, gone. He had removed a bullet from some outlaw, and in payment, they killed him so he couldn't identify them." Tears welled up in his eyes. "The worst part is the fact that he wouldn't have said a word to nobody. He would have considered his silence sacred. They didn't have to kill him."

"So you gave up medicine."

"Who needs it? Nobody pays you, and eventually you either die pauper with no family to comfort you, or some stinkin' outlaws kidnap you and kill you after you've done what they want. No thanks."

After an awkward silence, Adams looked down at the splint on his leg. "You did a pretty good job on that."

Stan gently wiped the cuts and bruises on Doc's face with a wet cloth. "You should get some rest while you can."

"Why are you ridin' with Russo?"

Stan shrugged. "It just sort of happened, and now I'm in too deep."

"It's never too late, son."

"It is this time, Doc. I'm the one who killed the sheriff in Meade."

Adams frowned. "I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want. I killed him. I didn't mean to...I'm a pretty lousy shot when it comes right down to it. I just wanted to stop him, and aimed at his leg. But instead, the bullet hit him in the chest. If I'd tried for that, I woulda hit him in the leg..."

Adams took one of Stan's hands in his own. "Any man's hand has the power to kill; damn few have the ability to heal." He shook his head in disgust. "What a waste."

Stan yanked his hand away. "You don't have to look on the waste much longer."

"Yeah. Mike'll see to that."

"He ain't gonna kill you."

"You gonna stop him?"

"If I have to."

Stan stood and walked over to the table, and sitting down in a chair, poured himself a drink.


	11. Chapter 11

"Chester, Russo doesn't know you're out here, and that's the only advantage we have." He put a hand on Goode's shoulder. "I'm gonna try and get him to take me instead of Doc. If he goes for it, then you just stay covered here in the bushes until we're long out of sight, then see to Doc."

"And if he don't go for it?"

"Then we wait until they come out and we try and take 'em; they'll be expecting only one gun."

"What about Doc?"

"We have to hope he gets clear."

"Mr. Dillon, Doc can't move hardly at all with that leg of his."

"Chester, it's our only option. If they ride outta here with Doc, they're gonna kill him anyway. At least this way, he has a chance..."

Dillon stood, walked toward the shack and called out, "Russo...I'll make a deal with ya."

"I told you no deals, Dillon."

"Let Doc go, and take me as your hostage."

Russo laughed. "That's like tradin' in a lamb for a rattlesnake. No deal, Dillon."

"I can get you to the border unchallenged. Doc can't."

"I said no deal. Now drop your gun, Dillon, and we'll come out, get on them horses and ride away."

"I'm not disarming until I see that Doc's all right."

After a few minutes, a man Matt didn't recognize emerged from the shack holding a shotgun. He was followed by Russo, who had Doc by the neck, holding him tightly against his chest, using him like a shield.

"You jes' stay real still, Dillon, or I'll put a hole in his head."

Shimmering blue locked onto pale blue, and Dillon read the pain, but also the determination. Matt clenched his jaw.

"Doc's not gonna be able to travel far or fast with that leg, Russo. And I promise you, I'll be trailing at a distance. At the first sign of trouble, I'll descend on you faster than an eagle on a prairie dog. I'll ask you one more time to take me instead."

"No," Doc interjected, "I'm goin' with 'em, Matt, not you."

"Doc, you stay outta this."

"I will not," the old man growled.

Russo tightened his hold on Adams' neck, causing Doc to wince in pain. "You shet-up old man."

But knowing that he had a better survival chance than Matt, Doc stood his stubborn ground. "You take the marshal with you, Russo, and you'll never get to the border."

"Doc!" Dillon roared in anger, "Stop it!"

"No, Matt. You're stayin' here, and ya ain't followin' neither."

"Doc you just be--"

"--Shet-up, both of you. We're takin' the doc. Get on your horse Stan, I'll get the old man up on his."

Doc held Dillon's eyes with his own, silently warning him that something was coming. Matt swallowed hard, afraid of whatever it was the old man had in mind. Stan mounted his horse, and Russo roughly moved Adams toward his, Doc crying out in pain.

"Shet-up ol' man, or I'll kill you right here."

"Russo, so help me--" Dillon started to say.

"--Stay out of it, Dillon; stay out of it unless you want to see him cut in half."

Dillon stood helplessly by as Russo manhandled the small physician trying to hoist him up into a saddle. Doc cried out in agony several times as the outlaw banged his damaged limb against the horse. And suddenly Doc let his body go slack, allowing his full weight to slam down onto Mike like a sack of potatoes. Both men fell to the ground, Adams screaming in pain as his leg connected with the hard dirt. Mike pulled his gun, aiming at Doc's head. Matt tried to get a clear shot, but Doc's horse was in his line of fire. Chester stood then, but his shot was blocked by Stan's horse. Mike cocked his gun, Dillon and Chester both screaming against the inevitable.

And the shot echoed through the clearing. But it wasn't the ping of a pistol; it was the boom of a double-barrel shotgun. Dillon watched as Russo crumpled to the ground and Matt stared unbelievingly at the gunsmoke wafting from Stan's shotgun. The outlaw looked into the eyes of soft pale blue that were swimming in pain, but he could see the lack of surprise in them.

Stan threw his shotgun in Dillon's direction, dismounted and started walking toward Adams.

"Hold it, mister," Matt said. Stan stopped and Dillon glanced at Adams, scolding, "You took an awful chance, Doc."

Adams looked up at Stan. "Not really, Matt. Not really." He reached a hand out toward the outlaw. "Help me up, Stan."

Gently Stan lifted the old doctor up, allowing him to lean heavily on his shoulder for support. Dillon collected the guns lying on the ground as Stan helped Adams into the shack. Chester walked over to Dillon after tying up the horses.

"How did he know that feller would save him, Mr. Dillon?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't know, Chester, but Doc's a pretty wise ol' rooster when it comes right down to it." Dillon clapped Goode on the back. "We've got some buryin' to do."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Dillon held the door of Delmonico's open, and Kitty walked through it carrying a covered tray of food. 

"You're gonna spoil him you know."

They walked toward Adams' office. "I don't think it's really possible to spoil Doc."

"Uh-huh. Just wait until you stop bringing his meals to him and he's no longer being showered with your undivided attention."

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward Matt. "Oh you're just jealous!"

He took the tray from her and they walked up the stairs. She opened the door, took the tray back, and the two of them went to the back bedroom. Kitty set the tray on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. Matt took his hat off, tossing it on the dresser, plopping into the chair by the bed.

Kitty gently shook the sleeping doctor's shoulder. "Wake up, Doc, I've got some supper for you."

He stirred, opened his eyes and smiled sleepily at her. "Hi honey," he said yawning.

Matt rolled his eyes as Kitty placed a napkin on the doctor's chest, and lifted his shoulders to put pillows under him, preparing to spoon feed him. Feeling the annoyed stare of the marshal, Adams flashed his soft blue eyes at Kitty.

"What are you doin' this Saturday, honey?" Doc asked.

"Saturday..." she shrugged, "nothin' I guess."

"Well then, let's get married." He winked at her and then he looked over at Dillon. "Oh, Matt... didn't see you sittin' there..."

"Uh-huh." Dillon arched an eyebrow at the old man. "You just figure you like all this fussin' and you're gonna make it permanent, huh?"

"Something like that, yeah..."

"Uh-huh. What are you gonna do about the city ordinance?"

"What ordinance?"

"The one that says any man over the age of 70 can't rob the cradle within city limits."

"Over 70?" Doc roared at the younger man. "Why you young whelp! I'm not a day over... well, over 54!"

Matt laughed. "Well for a man in such a prime, you sure are awful helpless."

"I can take care of myself just fine, you young jackanapes, but I sorta like havin' the two of you fussin' over me a little."

Kitty laughed. "Come on, Doc, your supper's gettin' cold."

"I know that!" He growled, allowing some of his normal strength show. Then he looked at Dillon, the lightness falling from his face. "What's going to happen to Stan, Matt?"

"He killed a sheriff," Dillon replied coldly.

"But killing wasn't his intention, and if it hadn't been for him, I'd sure be dead."

"Judge Brooker'll take that into consideration since you said you'd testify on his behalf."

"But yer not gonna speak up fer him are you..."

"I can't, Doc," Matt said, allowing some of the anger he was feeling to seep into his tone. "Crocker was a friend of mine; a good friend. And now his wife and kids are without a husband and father. What are they supposed to do?"

"Takin' Stan's life ain't gonna bring him back, Matt. With a life sentence, he could serve the prison population as a doctor. He'd make a fine one, and in that way he could give back a little to the people of Kansas."

Dillon shook his head. "I'm sorry, Doc. I just can't do that to Thelma and the kids."

Doc sat up then, glaring at Dillon, his voice resonating with annoyance, "You're not bein' honest with me or yourself, son."

"Doc," Kitty interjected, sensing the direction the doctor was headed, "that's not fair."

"You of all people know he's not tellin' the truth, Kitty!"

Dillon stood, placing his hands on his hips, anger filling his eyes. "What're you gettin' at, Doc?"

"You're hurtin' over the loss of Crocker, yes, but I think what's really gnawin' at you is the fact that his death scared the hell out of you; and that's what's made ya so angry. You've been distant and moody off and on fer the past week with the people closest to ya, and I'm not gonna let you get away with it, no sir!"

"Doc!" Kitty scolded, "you just stop this right now! You know I think the world of you, but you're stickin' your nose where it doesn't belong."

Dillon placed a soft hand on her shoulder, bringing a halt to her building tirade. "He's right, Kitty," Matt said softly. "Doc's right. Crocker bein' gunned down like that reminded me how easy it is to kill a lawman, and how unfair it is for any lawman to expect the people around him to shoulder the burden of carin' about him. And I guess it has made me a little moody lately..."

Kitty looked up at the big marshal with tears in her eyes. "Oh Matt, for such a smart man, you sure can be stupid. It's too late for you to put distance between you and me; or you and Chester; or you and Doc. If something were to happen to you tomorrow or the next day, or three years from now, it won't hurt us any less - only more."

"More?"

"Yes. For not being allowed to love you while we can."

Dillon smiled at her then, his eyes misting slightly with emotion, and Adams had seen enough.

"Oh, get outta here!" Doc bellowed. "Both of ya! I'm hungry and my food's gettin' cold!" Matt laughed then, picked up his hat and stood by the door. Kitty stood up, adjusted Doc's covers causing him to swat her hand away. "Oh, I'm...I'm not a baby, quit yer fussin'!"

She smiled down at the old doctor. "I take it the weddin's off this Saturday..."

"I'm not rich enough to marry the likes of you!"

"Ha! I bet that mattress of yours is stuffed with cash!"

"You just wanted to marry me because ya thought I had money!"

Kitty laughed at him. "That, and because you're so darned handsome!" He grinned at her then, and she bent down to kiss him softly on the lips. "Eat your supper, curly. Chester'll be along soon to look in on ya."

"Chester? Oh fine, ever since he was mistaken for a doctor, he's been trying to practice medicine on me, and I've about had it. Dag-blamed fool thinks he knows something about doctorin' now and ya know I'm just not gonna tolerate it..."

Matt and Kitty slipped from the room during his diatribe, and headed for the front door, which opened as they reached it. Chester bounded in, smiling as he removed his hat. "Evenin' Miss Kitty, Mr. Dillon..."

"Hiya Chester," Kitty said.

"You're uh, gonna take good care of Doc while we're gone, aren'tcha, Chester?" Dillon asked smiling.

"Well forevermore Mr. Dillon, of course I'll take good care of him, although he ain't too grateful or cooperative when I do."

"You know Chester, he was complainin' awhile ago that he wasn't feelin' too good. His belly's upset or something..." Kitty stared at Dillon and he winked. "I think you'd better try and help him figure out what's ailin' him..."

Chester's serious eyes almost made Dillon chuckle. "Of course I'll do everything I can, Mr. Dillon, you can count on it; if'n that ol' grump'll listen to me..." He stared with utmost sincerity into Dillon's eyes. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think Doc just didn't trust my judgment, Mr. Dillon..."

Matt's eyebrows arched upward as he said, "Yeah, well, good luck with him, Chester, we'll see you later."

"Sure thing, Mr. Dillon, Miss Kitty..."

Chester walked back into the bedroom, and Matt and Kitty left quickly. As they cleared the bottom of the staircase, they heard the doctor's deep bellow from an open second-story window.

"Out! Just get outta here, Chester! Yer not gonna practice medicine on me now, or ever! So help me, the next time you need a splinter taken outta yer hand, I'm gonna use a spoon to dig it out!"

Matt and Kitty laughed as arm in arm, they walked across the street toward the Longbranch. A quiet evening together was just what the doctor had ordered.

The End


End file.
